Swan Watch 2025

Some beings don't care who sees them nesting

Last spring during a lunchtime walk, I spotted a swan building a nest on the banks of the Wiese, a small river that flows into the Rhine near the German border. The nest was hidden somewhat by the steepness of the bank, grown over with tall grasses and flowers. A small tree also provided some protection, but once I knew the swan was there, the lunchtime walks went by that spot more regularly. I took pictures. I texted them to friends in the U.S. I searched for swan egg incubation time (34-38 days) and swan mating habits (the male - called a cob – brings the female sticks and reeds and she arranges them). Swan Watch 2024 was on. 

This seemed like a good nesting spot.

Then, one evening in May, I walked by and the nest was empty. No swan, no eggs, no cygnets. Swan Watch 2024 was over, and I never saw a single baby swan in the area. 

This year, before I got a chance to see if the swans had returned to what seemed like an excellent nesting spot to me, another swan couple built a highly visible nest on a peninsula below the bridge I bike over on my daily commute. 

My immediate reaction was, “Swans! Everyone can see you!” My next concern was that water rises. When it rains for days, like it did last spring, the peninsula gets smaller and smaller. 

Look how public this nest is

The swans probably know what they’re doing. They probably don’t care that half the city can see them incubating their eggs.

******

Remember during the pandemic when some people got really into birds? Maybe it was just my bubble; I recall reading essays (paywalled) and hearing podcasts about all the birds people spotted in their backyards. I was already a bird lover; once, before I found a job in D.C., Gabe asked how my day was, and I replied, “I saw an interesting duck.” We leveled up during COVID and got a plastic feeder. We suction-cupped it to our balcony door, which led to lots of sparrows, doves, and pigeons who made excessive noise during our Zoom meetings. 

The highlight of some of those lockdown days was a finch, a woodpecker, or an Eastern bluebird I saw on a pre-work bike ride. 

I’ve read (or heard) that knowing names of animals, trees, plants draws you nearer to nature, makes you care about it more. This makes sense: it’s not just a tree, it’s a tulip poplar. I suppose the same applies to humans. Since we moved to Switzerland, I’ve slowly been learning the species of birds here, ones that are new to me: the blackbird, the European robin, the Eurasian jay, tits of all types (blue, great). 

Swiss swans look the same as those in the U.S. I’ve learned that these are mute swans, introduced to the Seine by Louis XIV. They’re very elegant, but also terrifying. Swans make it clear that birds evolved from dinosaurs. Still, I like to see them from afar, making their nests and chilling on the eggs. 

While I was paparazzi-ing this swan, I noticed a plaque on the wall overlooking the river. On it, was a poem, “My Basel” by Theobald Baerward (the English translation is not very poetic). The plaque is one of 24 along the Three Countries “Poet-Path”, which runs along the river from Basel to Huningue, France, then crosses into Weil-am-Rhein in Germany. 

Often, when I make time for a little detour from my usual route, there’s a little reward. In D.C., my detour was usually through Rock Creek Park, and my rewards were things like ducklings waddling across the path, or an owl hanging out at dusk. This week, it was surprise poetry. 

Take a little detour. See what you find. Start your own Swan/Duck/Mushroom/Service Berry Watch. Maybe tell me about it in the comments.   

Sources

Mute Swan

Swan Fact Sheet